


Like Threads

by jockohomo



Category: Katawa Shoujo
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Questioning, Reunions, Sort Of, Totally Platonic Dates, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Hisao takes a year abroad and runs into someone unexpected.
Relationships: Nakai Hisao/Setou Kenji
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've played through all the different routes in katawa shoujo, and kenji was definitely my favorite character. i wish he had gotten his own path, since he's really fascinating to me and i wanted to learn more about his life than we ever got to in canon. i don't have the time or will to write a fan route, so this is what i'm working on instead.
> 
> occurs post-shizune's good end.
> 
> content warning for mentions of sexism and some unsanitary stuff. it's very tame.

Before September 2014, Nakai Hisao’s only contact with other countries had been indirect. He had met the odd person from outside of Japan, had seen the leaders of foreign nations in the news, had taken a seat in the movie theatre and half-slept through one or two of those irritating romance films that take place in New York City, but none of this really gave him a reasonable idea of the world outside his window. He had never particularly desired to travel, so it had never mattered much; wanderlust wasn’t exactly one of his top traits. “If you’re going to travel, college is the time to do it” — he’d had that phrase thrown at him time and time before, but he had never seriously considered it. It had never sounded _appealing_.

It was on a whim that he decided to go for it, really — a whim and a strongly worded letter from his ex-girlfriend. Hakamichi Shizune might have chosen her own direction in life, but she could still motivate him to take action in a way that few others could, damn her.

Of course Hisao _knew_ that America couldn’t possibly be exactly as the movies made it seem, but he had overestimated his own self-awareness. The people were markedly different, sure, but not quite as intrusive as he had worried — and he wasn’t exactly in New York City or Los Angeles, either. No, Hisao was tucked away in a middle-sized college town in North Carolina. He was hardly _complaining_ — if he had expected that he’d be attending college in some bustling urban maze, he might not have taken a year abroad in the first place — but it wasn’t what he had expected.

The college, mercifully, took measures to accommodate him, both in terms of language barrier and heart condition. His English skills have improved over the past few years, but not enough for him to be really confident; not enough for him to socialize freely. He speaks with his fellows from Japan more than anything, and somehow he feels like that defeats the purpose somewhat. Not that he feels strongly enough about it to justify making friends with any Americans other than the few who reach out to him first, no thank you.

Most days, Hisao grabs his lunch at the main cafeteria. American cuisine isn’t his preferred option, but he has a generous meal plan, and they at least have a nice variety of foods that rotate in and out of the menu. Sometimes he marvels at the portion sizes. Most days he has more interesting pastimes, when his friends are free at the same time as him; today is not one of those days.

The cafeteria is bustling, but it’s around noon on a weekday, so he doesn’t expect anything less. It’s unfortunate, though, because now the task at hand is to find a place to sit indoors, what with the way the rain is pouring outside.

He feels like a damned idiot, shuffling down the aisles of students hurrying to finish lunch before their next class and craning his neck to search for an open table, _any_ open table, but there’s no better alternative that he can think of. About a minute into his search, he’s starting to despair. Then he walks by one table in particular.

It’s a spot meant to accommodate two people, white and circular and smaller than it really should be, with one seat vacant and one occupied. The occupied one is facing towards him, and the man sitting there is partially hunched over, scarfing down a very greasy-looking slice of cheese pizza. All Hisao makes out before he passes him by is a mop of dark hair and a pair of thick, practically opaque glasses.

 _You know, he kind of looks like Kenji,_ Hisao thinks to himself as he drifts past the next table, which is almost completely covered by a snoring brunette. He stops in his tracks. _Wait._

Hisao takes a few steps backwards and, luckily, doesn’t run into anyone. Sure enough, a few seconds of observation confirm that the man he’s looking at is, in fact, Setou Kenji. He doesn’t look as thin as before, his skin has more color to it, and he’s donned in a red rain jacket rather than the Yamaku uniform that Hisao had only ever seen him in before today, but that’s definitely Kenji. Somehow, Hisao doubts he could ever forget that face.

The question, then, is what the hell _Setou Kenji_ is doing in the cafeteria of Hisao’s university. Shouldn’t he be posting conspiracy theories to Reddit from his nuclear bunker or something?

(Not that Hisao’s complaining. He has to eat _somewhere_.)

He sets his tray down across from Kenji. When this gets no reaction from him, Hisao clears his throat and says, “Kenji?”

The man in question jolts in his chair like he’s been shot and jerks his head up to stare at him. Hisao immediately feels like he’s about to be attacked, but when Kenji barks a response at him, he recognizes it as English for, more or less, “Who is it and what do you want?” 

He’s not sure what else he expected, really. Hisao raises his hands in front of his chest placatingly (and to show that he isn’t holding any feminist-engineered rayguns) and answers in Japanese. “Hey, calm down. It’s me, Hisao — from Yamaku, remember? The guy across the hall from you?”

Kenji stares at him for a moment, mouth half-way open, as if he doesn’t understand what he’s being told. Then his face morphs into a grin and he leans back some. “Well, why didn’t you say so? You nearly scared the shit out of me, man. Sit down!”

_No need to tell me twice._

“Long time no see!” Kenji adds before he’s quite made his way back down to his seat. “What’re you doing here, anyways? You didn’t follow me all the way to America, did you?”

Of course that’s the type of question Kenji would ask. Hisao might’ve graduated three years ago, but he hasn’t yet forgotten his friend’s idiosyncrasies. Still, he can’t bring himself to be annoyed, so he just shakes his head and says, “Of course I didn’t _follow you_.”

Kenji lowers a bite of pizza into his mouth and makes a disturbing slurping noise as he sucks it down. He takes a moment to chew. “Dude, I was joking. I know you didn’t follow me. What would you follow me for?”

“... Right.” Hisao raises an eyebrow and picks up his fork. “Your delivery was just too convincing. Anyways, I’m here for college. Studying abroad for a year. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Dude, this is where I go to school. Not a year-long program, though. I’m getting my bachelor’s here.”

“You mean you’re — ” Hisao swallows down a piece of chicken — “living here until you graduate?”

Kenji shrugs. “Pretty much.”

“Aren’t all the classes in English?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s an American school, Hisao.” Kenji frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. “You do know I’m fluent in English, right?”

“You’re — no, I _didn’t_ know that. How was I supposed to know that? I don’t think I ever saw you take an English class. Or go to class at all, for that matter, except during exams.”

(Come to think of it, though, it makes sense, seeing as Kenji had spoken to him in English just now before he recognized him.)

“Don’t underestimate me, fellow citizen. I have my ways.” Kenji waves a hand mysteriously — or, it might have been mysterious, if he wasn’t sitting there in a bright red poncho with pizza sauce on his mouth. Instead, he just looks absurd. “I’m a renaissance man.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hisao says, but he’s impressed despite himself that Kenji speaks English well enough to pursue a degree in an English-speaking country; after all, Hisao had spent most of his classes in the language sleeping, and his vocabulary still hovers around that of an American kindergartener’s. Lower, maybe. “What are you majoring in, anyways?”

“Computer science.”

“Damn.”

“And you’re still going in for a natural science?” Kenji barely gives Hisao enough time to clarify that he’s majoring in chemistry before he continues. “Right, right. What about that chick on the student council? Are you two still dating?”

“Shizune, you mean?” Hisao stops eating for a second and glances across the table at Kenji. He wishes he could see his eyes. “No, not anymore. I mean, we’re on good terms — we’re still close — life just took us different directions, that’s all. Hard to date when you don’t see each other often. Besides, she’s too busy for a relationship right now.”

“Aw, buddy, that’s too bad.”

Hisao can hardly keep himself from grimacing at the sympathy in Kenji’s voice — of all people, he never thought Kenji would be one to make a big deal out of something like this. Not that he’d be the first one to do so; pretty much all of their friends and family had been far more upset over the breakup that he or Shizune had been. “Not really. I mean, it was good while it lasted, but high school relationships aren’t meant to last forever. We’re both fine with it. Anyways, Shizune’s a pretty assertive woman, so I don’t see why you’d care. Don’t you hate feminists?”

He expects Kenji to diverge into histrionics, to recite some well-rehearsed monologue about how the entire world is under siege of a vast army of demonic misandrists, but instead he finds himself watching as the other man’s cheeks and ears begin to redden. Vaguely, he can recall a discussion they had once where his raving schoolmate had heatedly pointed out that there was a difference between _women_ and _feminists_ , and he wonders if he’s about to be subjected to one of those lectures again.

Kenji sets the pizza crust down on his plate and wipes his fingers on an already-stained napkin. Hisao gets the feeling that he isn’t really looking at him, even though he can’t actually tell. Finally, he gives an awkward laugh and says, “High school, huh? That certainly was… Well, I was a pretty interesting guy back then. I mean, I still am, but jesus.”

Hisao can feel his eyebrows shooting up through the ceiling. “Really? You’re not into all that conspiracy nonsense anymore?”

“Uh, not really. My dad made me take a gap year before college to, like, go to therapy and stuff. Do some traveling. Adjust to the world.” Kenji takes a large bite of crust as if it’ll mask his embarrassment and adds muffledly, “It sucked sometimes and I still have to go to therapy every week, but whatever. ‘S for the best. Like that time I ate too much at China Buffet and threw up all over the men’s restroom but then I said I had food poisoning from the fried shrimp so they gave me a discount.”

Hisao takes a moment to marvel at the fact that Kenji is actually _going to therapy_ before he’s rushed off into his friend’s misadventures in Chinese food. He frowns. “That’s called lying.”

“I’m a college student, Hisao. I do what I must.” Kenji shakes his head. “I thought you, of all people, would understand that. Besides, the crab rangoon _did_ taste a little funny…” 

“I thought you told them it was the fried shrimp.”

“Yeah, but — ”

Before Hisao gets to hear whatever excuse Kenji’s managed to formulate, he feels an incessant buzzing in his pocket. He retrieves his phone, expecting it to be one of the other Japanese students or maybe his mom, but it appears to be an unknown caller. _Must be spam_ , he figures, turning the thing back off. When he glances up, he sees that his companion has gone quiet, fists clenched against the table.

“... You okay?”

Kenji jumps a bit and rapidly shakes his head, as if trying to wake himself up from a particularly nasty dream. He makes a weird noise that sounds like it’s coming from the back of his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Anyways, I should get going. Sounds like you’ve got someone trying to get in touch with you.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure it was a telemarketer.”

“Well, I have classes, so I need to leave. Academia waits for no man.” Suddenly, Kenji materializes a leather satchel out of seemingly nowhere, then rummages around in it before procuring a notebook and a pen. Hisao wonders, for a moment, if he’s taking notes on their discussion or something strange like that, before he is handed a torn-out sheet of lined paper with numbers scrawled messily across it.

He glances up bemusedly.

“My phone number,” Kenji explains.

(Hisao is transported briefly to lunch three years ago — _“There’s a few people I wouldn’t mind sitting with. No one’s like you, though.”_ He almost expects chills to run down his spine again but instead he just feels a bit of sweat forming on his brow. No use in analyzing the change in reaction now.)

“Your…?”

“C’mon, man, you heard me. What, do you not wanna talk to me?” Kenji frowns, but this time Hisao is fairly certain he isn’t being serious. Fairly. “It’s been, like, years. We should hang out sometime. Shoot the shit. Chill out.”

“Yeah, totally.” Hisao shrugs and realizes that he’s barely touched his own food. “I’ll text you later.”

“Just let me know first.”

“How am I supposed to let you know first if that’s the only way I — ”

“Fuck, damn, you’re right. Whatever, I’ll just be on my guard.” Kenji stands up, slings the satchel over his shoulder, and gives him a militaresque salute. “See you later, dude.” 

Hisao mumbles something similar and waves a hand as Kenji hurries off toward the doors. A few of the tables have cleared up now; he glances down at the piece of paper in his hand.

He wonders what exactly “hanging out” with Kenji entails.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisao questions and finds answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for sexual references, very briefly implied child abuse, and slight homophobia i guess.

A week passes. Hisao dreams.

The living space he envisions himself in is not unlike his own; the walls are an inviting blue and cover the perimeter of a room approximately the size of a walk-in closet. The furniture and decorations that adorn his shared home, however, are miles away from his realm of consciousness. All he’s immediately aware of is a mass of white sheets pulled around his body, a warmth pressed up against his cheek, and then he realizes this warmth as another person. He is positioned on his side in his bed, facing the wall of his room, but there’s a figure between him and the wall. 

Hisao cannot fully see this other person because their bodies are all tangled together and his head is against their chest, but he can feel rough skin, firm muscles relaxed underneath it. He knows that they are at least somewhat taller than them, with a flat chest dotted with hair and broad fingers rubbing in circles around the small of his back. Perhaps his dream self is mistaken, but he thinks he can feel something against his stomach.

Nothing else happens; that might just be the strangest thing about it. Dreams are noted for being chaotic and surreal, and this might be surreal, but it certainly isn’t chaotic. If anything, it is quite the opposite. His body is warm and he is oddly at peace.

Suddenly, he is awake and his eyes are blown open, staring widely at the blue wall across from him. Sure enough, his bed is empty, and he is no longer calm; no, he can feel his palms sweating and his breathing coming and going quickly.

Luckily, he has grown good at forcing his breathing to settle. It’s a talent that he’s practiced after years of living with a heart condition.

Even once he’s got the air flowing properly through his lungs, Hisao can’t shake the nagging feeling in his gut. He’s had this dream more than once before, and each time all he can do is wish he could forget it. There’s nothing inherently disturbing about it, no real reason to be terrified, but he always is left with the feeling that he’s seen something he shouldn’t have, that he’s viewed a section of himself that shouldn’t exist. He still doesn’t understand why that feeling never hits him until he wakes up.

A few minutes later, Hisao rolls onto his other side to gaze across the room. His roommate is absent, but he had already assumed as much, since the guy is an early riser even on weekends. The digital clock on their shared bedside table tells him that it’s ten-thirty in the morning.

Two hours till he’s supposed to meet with Kenji. He still has some time to kill.

When he first had the dream one half-drunken night a few months ago, Hisao had resolved not to tell anyone about it. The second time, he was a bit worried. The third time, he began seriously considering reaching out to someone to ask their thoughts on the matter. By now, he wasn’t sure if it would ever go away unless he did.

_No time like the present, I guess._

Hisao picks his cell phone off of the table and dials.

A few seconds pass, and he can hear his phone thrumming dully in his hand. He’s two hours behind Japan, he’s sure of that much, which means that it’s noon there. Perhaps she won’t pick up; for all he knows, she could still be in bed, knowing her. Several more seconds pass. He’s almost given up before a voice shouts from the other end of the line.

“Good morning to you, Hicchan! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Hisao winces and holds the phone away from his ear. After he’s sure his hearing hasn’t been permanently damaged, he positions it back where it was. “Yeah, I know. Are you busy right now?”

“No, no! I mean, not unless you call ‘trying to avoid working on a paper’ busy.” Misha gives a laugh and manages to only sound a little bit pained. “Please keep me in your thoughts, I’m really worried about this one. What about you? Are you busy?”

“I don’t think I’d call you if I didn’t have the time to talk.”

“Well, yeah. I’m just asking what you’ve been up to.”

“University. Nothing too interesting, unless you really like chemistry. Although, I did learn one thing. Did you know that Setou Kenji’s been going to school here since last year?”

“Setou Kenji?” There’s a long pause. “Setou… Is that… Hm… I don’t remember who that is.”

“That guy from high school who lived across from me. Thick glasses, wore a scarf.”

“Oh!” The noise coming from his phone peaks in volume again. “That guy! Wasn’t he a bit, um, eccentric?”

“... Yeah, something like that.” Hisao is still a bit in awe that the guy’s gone to therapy since high school, but he’s not about to complain. It’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. 

Misha gives that boisterous laugh of hers again. After a pause, she says, “Okay, I’ll bite. That’s not really all you called to talk about, is it, Hicchan? C’mon, I can hear it in your voice. There’s something on your mind.”

 _Dammit._ Hisao inhales sharply, and for a moment, he considers backing down. He’s made it this far, though, and he can almost see that expectant look in Misha’s eyes, so he pushes on. “Misha, how did you realize you were gay?”

“How did I…?” Misha is quiet for a moment. “Well, I don’t know. I was never really into guys like all the other girls were, but when you’re surrounded by straight couples all the time, you kind of figure that’s just how things have to be, y’know? I didn’t even know I _could_ like other girls until … I don’t know, middle school? I think it was because of some anime I watched. Suddenly things just kind of clicked — like, ‘Oh, this is a thing that exists’. I don’t think I realized that I was that until a year or so later, though. There was this one girl… I was thinking about her one night and everything just started to make sense.”

“... I see.”

“Sorry, I hope that wasn’t too long-winded!” Misha laughs. “Anyways, why do you ask, Hicchan? That’s a pretty personal question, especially after such a long time. You’re lucky I’m so nice.”

“Well…” Hisao coughs. “Um, no reason. I really need to go, so…”

“Oh, come on! That’s not the kind of thing you ask without a reason. If you don’t tell me, I’ll be forced to believe that you’ve fallen madly in love with the Setou guy.”

“In love with — ” Hisao chokes; his face feels oddly warm. “N-no, that’s not why I’m asking. I’ve just been feeling … different, I guess.”

“As in?”

“... I keep having this dream.” Oh, god, he’s starting to think this whole thing was a mistake. “I’m in bed with another guy. It’s not even, like … sexual. I mean, we’re both naked, but it isn’t — it isn’t, like, a wet dream. We’re just kind of — embracing, I guess. And I always feel fine about it in the moment, but then I wake up and … then I don’t, really.”

Misha is quiet for a long moment, then whistles lowly. “Hicchan, my good friend, I think you might be experiencing gay thoughts.”

“No shit!”

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, I’m not really qualified to tell you what your sexuality is, but from the sound of it… There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to men.”

His ears burn. “I know that. I _know_ that. It’s just — ”

“You never thought that might be you?”

His voice catches in his throat. Hisao pulls the phone away from his ear for a second and just stares at it. Then he raises it back to his face and says, “Yeah.”

“Hey, you’ve got plenty of time to figure it out!” Misha sounds so enthusiastic, so _carefree_ — she seems even further out of his reach than she actually is. “There’s no rush. Just remember, there’s nothing gross or unmasculine about it, you know? You’re the same person you always were. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“... Yeah.”

After another deafening period of silence, she adds, “Actually, I’m a bit curious about why you asked me in particular. I’m flattered and all, but this was pretty out of the blue.”

Hisao swallows thickly and returns from his brief reverie. He pauses, comprehending her words. “There’s not a deep reason, really. You’re the only gay person I know. That I’m friends with, at least.”

A laugh. “Or so you think. You can never really tell.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Hisao closes his eyes; breathes in, breathes out. “I really do need to go now, though. I have to be somewhere.”

“Oh! Yeah, sure. It was good talking to you. Let me know whenever you’re back in Japan.”

“I will.” Hisao opens his eyes and gazes at the wall across from him. His face is still warm. “And, uh. Thanks, Misha.”

He hangs up before he hears her reply.

And now he can go back to ignoring the whole thing and getting ready for today’s plans.

As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to wait long to discover what “hanging out” with Kenji entails. Hisao had sent the guy a text, and the next day was met with a message asking if he wanted to get lunch and go bowling sometime. Hisao had agreed, and thus had commenced the great debate over when they could manage to meet up, because apparently any day that worked for Hisao was all booked up for Kenji. As a matter of fact, most days seemed to be all booked up for Kenji. It took them a few days to finally figure out a date.

Apparently Kenji knows of all the places in town worth bowling at. The idea of Kenji going out with friends and socializing at any sort of upstanding establishment seems paradoxical in a way, but, as Hisao reminds himself, a lot of things have changed in the past few years. For his own part, he seldom wanders outside campus unless he has to, so he has no option but to trust the other man’s judgement.

(The concept of that is still at least slightly terrifying, if he’s honest.)

Since he doesn’t have his own car, Hisao is forced to rely on public transit as a means of getting from his dorm to the bowling alley. Kenji had texted him the address after being reminded upwards of a dozen times, and luckily it isn’t too far a distance, so Hisao boards the bus, donned in his least nerdy-looking sweater vest and a pair of jeans.

The place isn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. It seems like just as much of a bar as it does a bowling alley, with an area for local musicians to set up and several wooden tables (each seating a group of people) taking up most of the front of the restaurant — none of the decor boasted by American bowling alleys in the movies he’d watched. He figures that Kenji will probably be running late, so he wanders over to the shoe rental booth situated against the right wall behind all the tables and secures himself a pair. 

He’s about to start looking for an unoccupied lane when he spots his intended companion at one of the nearest. Just like last time, he can’t help but do a bit of a double take. 

Kenji is wearing a French rose-colored polo shirt. Hisao can’t tell what’s more jarring — the fact that he’s wearing clothes that could be construed as “nice”, the fact that the hue of the shirt is so intensely pink, or the fact that his shoes are the same damn color. His hair is still sort of messy, but he seems to have at least attempted to brush it because it isn’t quite the mop it was last time. He’s alone in the lane, hunched partially over in his seat and currently examining his watch, as if it isn’t still five minutes before their appointed meeting time. 

Clearly, he doesn’t notice Hisao, so he takes the task upon himself and makes his way to the lane.

“Hey, Kenji. I’m here,” he announces, picking a ball off the rack and lifting it up experimentally. 

Kenji’s head snaps up. “Hisao?”

“Yep.”

The other man’s posture immediately relaxes, and he grins somewhere in Hisao’s general direction. “Good. I was starting to worry they’d gotten you.”

“‘They’?”

“The feds, dude.”

“Why would the feds be after me?”

“A joke, Hisao. I was making a joke.”

“Oh.” His face reddens. He manages to distract himself by selecting a bowling ball and setting it down in the median. “Well, still, I’m not exactly late. I mean, I’m early.”

“By five minutes. You’re practically just on time.”

“But still not late.”

Kenji tsks at him. “If you’re not early, you’re late, pal.”

Hisao rolls his eyes, then remembers that Kenji probably can’t tell, so instead he says, “We’re just hanging out, Kenji. It’s not a damn job interview.”

“Hey, not as far as _you_ know.” Kenji points an accusing finger at him. “Maybe I’m the proud proprietor of my own very successful startup company and I invited you here to scout you for a well-paying job under me. You just squandered your chances, Hisao. You could’ve made a fortune.”

“Like hell you are.”

Kenji laughs. “Yeah, I know.”

It’s then that Hisao notices that the wall nearest to them is decorated with very large paintings of the central characters from _the Big Lebowski_. Seems like the kind of movie Kenji would like. 

“You ordered anything yet?” he asks, glancing back at Kenji.

The man in question gives a small start and looks up from where he had been closely inspecting a line of bowling balls. “Ordered?”

“Food. We’re getting lunch, right?”

“Oh, yeah! Lunch. I figured we’d do that after we bowl.”

“It probably won’t be lunch time anymore by then.”

“Exactly.” Kenji taps his temple. “Which means there’ll be less people getting food. Less of a crowd. Less time for us to wait.”

Hisao shrugs; admittedly, it makes some sense. Kenji, having apparently selected his preferred weight, approaches the start of the lane. He bends his knees, pulls his arm back, then tosses the ball forward. With vision as bad as his, Hisao expects him to roll the thing right into the gutter, or maybe take out one or two pins. What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Kenji to score himself a strike.

He feels his eyebrows rise and lets out a low whistle as Kenji returns triumphantly to his side. “Damn. Lucky shot?”

“No luck. I’m pure skill, baby.” (Hisao’s face heats up when Kenji says “baby”, but apparently this goes unnoticed.) “Seriously, I’m pretty good at this. No need to be so shocked.”

Hisao picks up the bowling ball best suited to his strength (or lack thereof). As he walks past Kenji, he asks, “Isn’t it hard for you to aim?”

Kenji follows after him. “Hey, just because I’m legally blind doesn’t mean I’m actually blind! I wouldn’t have these if I was.” He taps the side of his glasses. “It’s not like you need to see where the individual pins are. If you get a feel for the group of them, it’s just a matter of aiming for the middle. Right angle, right amount of force…” He swings his arm. “Whoosh! Home run.”

“That’s baseball.”

“Duh.”

Hisao rolls his ball down the lane. It immediately steers into the gutter. Somewhere next to his left ear, Kenji cackles.

Their games lasts around half an hour, and the results don’t change much. Hisao finally starts to get the hang of it towards the end — some pretty solid rolls, even a spare right before they wrap up — but he’s already far too behind to have any hopes of catching up unless Kenji’s sense of balance goes kaput or he has a sudden heart attack. Of course, neither of these events come to pass. His companion ends by a wide margin.

Hisao had been under the impression that bowling was something people only ever did when they wanted an excuse to sit around and chat, so he had, naturally, assumed that that was the case here. That assumption had turned out to be very wrong; when Kenji bowled, he _bowled_. His eyebrows drew together and his teeth pressed against his lower lip — he was constantly tense, arms crossed, foot tapping against the smooth wooden floor of the bowling alley. There was something contemplative, almost _strategic_ about the way he observed the scoreboard, the way he positioned himself before a roll. 

Hisao had never seen someone get so serious about fucking bowling. He had never seen Kenji act like this before, either; whenever he had been really serious about something back in high school, he had seemed on the verge of a panic attack. This is different — there is no sense of danger, regardless of how self-concocted, to this activity. He isn’t sure how to react to it. He certainly can’t say anything about it. It’s a strange sight, and even stranger, perhaps, are the feelings it evokes within him. Against his own will, seemingly, he is really, _really_ beginning to like that pink shirt.

By the time they finish, Hisao’s ears and cheeks have turned a similar color, and it isn’t because bowling is a particularly strenuous sport. He’s doing his best to ignore it. He hopes that Kenji’s messy eating habits will help to deter whatever feelings are causing this, but then they sit themselves down for lunch and Kenji begins scarfing down a Philly cheese steak and he realizes, tragically, that they are not.

Half-way through lunch, in the middle of a mostly one-sided discussion they’re having about some obscure movie Kenji watched recently, Hisao’s phone goes off; it’s on vibrate, but he can still feel it in his pocket. He mumbles a brief apology and pulls it out. It’s the same telemarketer from a few weeks ago.

_Damn, they’re getting persistent._

Hisao answers the phone long enough to tell the lady on the other end of the line to remove his number from their calling list and hangs up. 

He hears Kenji exhale sharply. Suddenly he remembers that moment a few weeks ago, when his phone had gone off and Kenji had looked like his best friend had just been murdered before his eyes. When he glances up now, it’s nowhere near as bad as that, but the other man’s face has gone paler than usual and his gaze is fixed down on the remnants of his cheese steak — at least, that’s what he seems to be looking at. It’s hard to tell.

When several seconds pass and his companion hasn’t moved, Hisao finally takes it upon himself to rouse him. He clears his throat, pauses, and says, “Hey, are you okay?”

Kenji shakes his head very quickly and straightens his back to face Hisao again. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just don’t like phones much.”

A sudden memory comes to mind of an early weekday morning in their shared hallway. Hisao nods. “I think you mentioned that way back when. Ever figure out what it was about?”

“Uh, yeah. Therapist helped with that.” Kenji grimaces. “My mom’s kind of a wack job, you know. More or less explains the whole ‘feminist conspiracy’ thing.”

… Maybe he can steer the conversation away from childhood trauma. “You know, Kenji, you’ve gotten awfully self-aware.” 

“That’s kind of the point.” Kenji says it like it’s obvious, and he guesses that it is, but that doesn’t make his tone any less irritating. Dammit, that smug expression of his — now Hisao’s face is heating up. “I’ve figured out a lot about myself in the past few years.”

“Yeah?” Hisao pokes idly at a piece of fried okra. He’s been trying to eat healthy, and he likes to imagine that a BLT and okra is a few steps up from what Kenji has been chewing on. “Like what?”

Kenji touches his hand to his chin, as if he’s trying to show Hisao how deep in thought he is. “Okay, okay, let’s see. I told you about my ex, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how I told you about that time I got really tired after we had sex?”

Hisao glances around at the rest of the restaurant. An old lady sitting a table over from them shoots Kenji a weird glance, but no one else seems to acknowledge them. He looks back to Kenji and lowers his voice, hoping that the other man will get the hint and follow suit. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Kenji continues, volume still high as ever, “obviously now I know that was a natural response. Totally normal. But, y’know, I also realized that I didn’t just feel tired afterwards. I also felt really … huh, _unfulfilled_ , I guess. Like the whole thing just wasn’t really gratifying like I had expected it to be. You feel me?”

“... Kenji, you’re kind of loud.”

“What? How did you know that? Don’t be weird, Hisao. Let me finish.”

Hisao frowns deeply. His face grows redder, somehow. It’s a good thing Kenji can barely see.

“Anyways, as I was saying — ” Kenji waves a hand — “I basically figured out that I’m not into women that much. Like, at all.”

 _Oh._ Talk about coming out of left field. _Very_ out of left field. Hisao’s heart skips a beat (luckily, it doesn’t do anything else out of the ordinary) and he takes a sip of his drink in the hopes that it’ll mask his blush, or at least cool him down some. When he’s done he pauses before saying, “Then how come you had a girlfriend?”

“I mean, it’s not like I _knew_ I wasn’t into women yet. It’s like, I just kind of assumed I was, y’know? It’s the way I was brought up. I mean, for a while, I thought gay people were … kind of gross. Of course I didn’t want to be one of them. And my ex really was a nice girl, I just didn’t like her the way I thought I did. It might’ve been nice to be friends.”

Hisao nods. Something about this discussion is making his stomach do weird things, and he can’t place whether it’s a good feeling or a bad one. Either way, if he doesn’t fill the silence, he feels like he might die. So he pushes on. “You’re gay, then? Not … what’s the word, asexual?”

“I’m pretty sure, yeah. I mean, it’s not like I think every guy I meet is hot, but yeah.” Kenji leans slightly across the table. “You do know other gay people, right? Like, you know that not all gay guys want to bang every other guy they meet?”

“Of course I know that,” Hisao sputters, crossing his arms. “I’m not that dense. I mean, I know gay people. I have gay friends. Don’t act like I’m that dumb.”

“People are idiots, dude.”

“Yeah, but _I’m_ not one.”

“Never said you were.” Kenji gives a weird laugh and holds a hand up. “I’m just messing with you, man. I don’t think that lowly of you.”

Hisao glowers at him from across the table.

They split the bill, of course. It’s a strange task, reconciling this adult Kenji with the oddball teenager he’d known a few years prior; of course their mannerisms are similar, their speech patterns and sense of humor and physicality, but there’s something strange in being able to hold an actual conversation with him without it digressing into some rant about feminists or another ridiculous conspiracy theory. 

He seems _happier_ , too. The way he speaks, the way he looks — the Kenji of years prior had been almost amusing in how paranoid he was, but he had been paranoid, nonetheless. There’s still something of that old nervousness in the man across from him, but he seems to be handling it alright. He’s functioning. Hisao is glad to see it.

It’s a strange thing to admit, but inwardly, he admits it. He’s glad to see Kenji. He wishes that could explain half of the way he’s feeling now.

(An explanation does come to mind, but he’s not sure how to approach it.)

As it turns out, Kenji doesn’t live on campus. Apartments are apparently relatively affordable here, and, as Hisao learned from their lunch conversation, he has a part-time job waiting tables at a restaurant nearby and a respectable check coming in from his parents every month. It’s within walking distance of where they are, but Kenji doesn’t offer to show him there. Hisao isn’t sure he’d be able to do it without dying of embarrassment, anyways. Kenji does, however, insist on waiting with him for the bus to come.

“I’ve gotta go to work after this,” he says, probably just trying to fill the silence. “You should drop by sometime. The food’s good — I could make some suggestions, but you’d better tip me good.”

“I’ve only got so much money to spend on food, you know. If you want to see me so bad, just take me for dinner there yourself.”

Kenji groans. “There’s no fun in eating somewhere I work.”

“Take me somewhere else, then.”

“Maybe I will.”

They’re both very quiet for a moment. A car passes by them a good ten miles over the speed limit and Hisao takes a small step back underneath the roof of the bus stop bench. He pushes his hands into his pockets and closes his eyes. He remembers what Misha told him that morning and a sudden urge grips him.

“Kenji?”

“What’s up?”

“Was this a date?”

There’s no response. Hisao opens his eyes again and glances to Kenji; he finds him facing the road, expression unreadable. After a moment he takes his glasses off and looks at Hisao.

He knows that all Kenji can see now is a mass of colors, and that’s more or less what he feels like at the moment. The shadows under his eyes have lightened since before, and he peers curiously at Hisao as if trying to discern one shapeless color from another.

“Did you want it to be one?”

Hisao takes a long pause. He feels very warm.

“I think so.”

“Then next time it will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> apparently you can't do notes for the end of chapter one? either that or i'm really technologically inept. they all just go to the end of the last chapter. since that's the case and most of my chapter one notes don't apply to the entire fic, i just deleted most of them. rip.
> 
> song title is taken from 'my life' by oingo boingo. the original lyric is 'like so many threads', but that sounded weird so i shortened it.
> 
> kenjisao rights
> 
> https://gaspardcaderousse.tumblr.com/


End file.
